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Yet not the more for that walk I unarmed; Since this which seems a rod, is my good torch, So have I wrought deception, and breathes all Invisible flame; and this good dart of mine, Though pointed not with gold, is nevertheless Temper divine; and wheresoe'er it lights, Infixes love.

And now will I with this,
Pierce with a deep immedicable wound
Into the hard heart of the cruellest nymph,
That ever followed on Diana's choir.
No shallower shall it go in Sylvia's bosom,
(Such is the name of this fair heart of rock)
Than once it went, years back, out of this hand,
Into the gentle bosom of Amyntas,

When every where he followed her about
To chace and sport, young lover his young lass.
And that my point may go the deeper, I
Will wait awhile, till pity mollify

The blunting ice, which round about her heart
Cold honour has kept bound, and virgin niceness;
And wheresoe'er it turn to softness most,
There will I lance the dart. And to perform
So fair a work most finely, I go now
I
To mingle with the holiday multitude
Of flowery-crowned shepherds, who are met
Hard by in the accustomed place of sport,
Where I will feign me one of them; and there,
Even in this place and fashion, will I strike
A blow invisible to mortal eye.

After new fashion shall these woods to day Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen That my divinity is present here

In its own person, not its ministers.

I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts;
I will refine, and render dulcet sweet,

Their tongues; because, wherever I may be,
Whether with rustic or heroic men,
There am I Love; and inequality,
As it may please me, do I equalize;

And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle
To make the rural pipe as eloquent

Even as the subtlest harp. If my proud mother, Who scorns to have me roving in the woods, Knows not thus much, 'tis she is blind, not I; Though blind I am miscalled by blinded men.

AMYNTAS DECLARES HOW HIS LOVE FOR SYLVIA BEGAN.

One day, Sylvia and Phillis Were sitting underneath a shady beech, I with them; when a little ingenious bee, Gathering his honey in those flowery fields, Lit on the cheeks of Phillis, cheeks as red As the red rose; and bit, and bit again With so much eagerness, that it appeared The likeness did beguile him. Phillis, at this, Impatient of the smart, sent up a cry; [grieve; "Hush! Hush!" said my sweet Sylvia," do not I have a few words of enchantment, Phillis,

Will ease thee of this little suffering.
The sage Artesia told them me, and had
That little ivory horn of mine in payment,
Fretted with gold." So saying, she applied
To the hurt cheek the lips of her divine
And most delicious mouth, and with sweet humming
Murmured some verses that I knew not of.
Oh admirable effect! a little while,
And all the pain was gone; either by virtue
Of those enchanted words, or as I thought,
By virtue of those lips of dew,

That heal whate'er they turn them to.
I, who till then had never had a wish
Beyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes,
Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet far
Than the soft murmur of a humming stream
Crooking its way among the pebble-stones,
Or summer airs that babble in the leaves,
Felt a new wish move in me to apply
This mouth of mine to hers; and so becoming
Crafty and plotting, (an unusual art
With me, but it was love's intelligence)
I did bethink me of a gentle stratagem
To work out my new wit. I made pretence,
As if the bee had bitten my under lip;
And fell to lamentations of such sort,
That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask
With word of mouth, I asked for with my looks.
The simple Sylvia then
Compassioning my pain,
Offered to give her help
To that pretended wound;

And oh! the real and the mortal wound,
Which pierced into my being,

When her lips came on mine.

Never did bee from flower

Suck sugar so divine,

As was the honey that I gathered then
From those twin roses fresh.

I could have bathed in them my burning kisses,
But fear and shame withheld
That too audacious fire,
And made them gently hang.

But while into my bosom's core, the sweetness,
Mixed with a secret poison, did go down,
It pierced me so with pleasure, that still feigning
The pain of the bee's weapon, I contrived
That more than once the enchantment was repeated.
From that time forth, desire

And irrepressible pain so grew within me,
That not being able to contain it more,
I was compelled to speak; and so, one day,
While in a circle a whole set of us,
Shepherds and nymphs, sat playing at the game,
In which they tell in one another's ears
Their secret each, "Sylvia," said I in her's,
"I burn for thee; and if thou help me not,
I feel I cannot live." As I said this,
She dropt her lovely looks, and out of them
There came a sudden and unusual flush,
Portending shame and anger: not an answer
Did she vouchsafe me, but by a dead silence,

Broken at last by threats more terrible.

She parted then, and would not hear me more,
Nor see me. And now three times the naked reaper
Has clipped the spiky harvest, and as often
The winter shaken down from the fair woods
Their tresses green, since I have tried in vain
Every thing to appease her, except death.
Nothing remains indeed but that I die!
And I shall die with pleasure, being certain
That it will either please her, or be pitied;
And I scarce know which of the two to hope for.
Pity perhaps would more remunerate

My faith, more recompence my death; but still
I must not hope for aught that would disturb
The sweet and quiet shining of her eyes,
And trouble that fair bosom, built of bliss.

O lovely age of gold!

CHORUS.

Not that the rivers rolled

With milk, or that the woods dropped honey dew;
Not that the ready ground
Produced without a wound,

Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew;

Not that a cloudless blue

For ever was in sight,

Or that the heaven which burns,

And now is cold by turns,

Looked out in glad and everlasting light;

No, nor that ev'n the insolent ships from far

Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than But solely that that vain

And breath-invented pain,

That idol of mistakes, that worshipped cheat,
That Honour, since so called

By vulgar minds appalled,

Played not the tyrant with our nature yet.

It had not come to fret

The sweet and happy fold

Of gentle human-kind;

Nor did its hard law bind

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But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer, Thou conq'ror of the crowned,

Souls nursed in freedom; but that law of gold, That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted, Which Nature's own hand wrote,-What pleases, is permitted.

What dost thou on this ground,

Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere?

Go and make slumber dear
To the renowned and high:
We here, a lowly race,
Can live without thy grace,
After the use of mild antiquity.
Go; let us love; since years

No trace allow, and life soon disappears.

Go; let us love: the daylight dies, is born;
But unto us the light

Dies once for all; and sleep brings on eternal night.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

FROM ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF
SOLITUDE.

There was a poet, whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:
A lovely youth,—no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or white cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:-
Gentle, and brave, and generous,-no lorn bard
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.

Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And virgins, as unknown he past, have pined
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those orbs has ceased to burn,
And silence, too enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.

By solemn vision, and bright silver dream,
His infaucy was nurtured. Every sight

And sound from the vast earth and ambient air,
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.
The fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great,
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past
In truth, or fable consecrates, he felt
And knew. When early youth had past, he left
His cold fireside and alienated home
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured his fearful steps; and he has bought
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps
He like her shadow has pursued, where'er
The red volcano over-canopies
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice
With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes
On black bare pointed islets ever beat
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves,
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and poison, inaccessible

To avarice or pride, their starry domes
Of diamond and of gold expand above
Numberless and immeasurable halls,
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems or gold, the varying of heaven
And the green earth lost in his heart its claims
To love and wonder; he would linger long
In lonesome vales, making the wild his home,
Until the doves and squirrels would partake
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food,

Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks;
And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form
More graceful than her own.

His wandering step,
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited
The awful ruins of the days of old:
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids,

Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk,

Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx,
Dark Ethiopia in her desert hills
Conceals. Among the ruined temples there,
Stupendous columns, and wild images

Of more than man, where marble dæmons watch
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around,
He lingered, poring in memorials

Of the world's youth; through the long burning day
Gazed in those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon
Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time.

THE DEDICATION OF The revolt OF ISLAM.

TO MARY

So now my summer task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
As to his queen some victor knight of faery,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour
Is ended. And the fruit is at thy feet!
No longer where the woods to frame a bower
With interlaced branches mix and meet,
Or where with sound like many voices sweet
Water-falls leap among wild islands green
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been,
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The clouds which wrap this world from youth did
I do remember well the hour which burst
My spirit's sleep: a fresh Maydawn it was,
When I walked forth upon the glittering grass,
And wept I knew not why; until there rose
From the near school-room, voices, that alas!
Were but one echo from a world of woes,

The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.
And then I clasped my hands and looked around—
But none was near to mock my streaming eyes,
Which poured the warm drops on the sunny
ground-

So without shame, I spake:—“ I will be wise,
And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies
Such power; for I grow weary to behold
The selfish and the strong still tyrannize
Without reproach or check." I then controuled
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and

bold.

And from that hour did I with earnest thought
Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore;
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught
I cared to learn, but from that secret store
Wrought linked armour for my soul, before
It might walk forth to war among mankind; [more
Thus power and hope were strengthened more and
Within me, till there came upon my mind
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined.
Alas, that love should be a blight and snare
To those who seek all sympathies in one!-
Such once I sought in vain; then black despair,
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone:-
Yet never found I one not false to me,
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone
Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be
Aught but a lifeless clog until revived by thee.

Thou friend, whose presence on my wintery heart
Fell like bright spring upon some herbless plain;
How beautiful and calm and free thou wert
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain
Of custom thou didst burst and rend in twain,
And walked as free as light the clouds among,
Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung
To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long.

No more alone through the world's wilderness,
Although I trod the paths of high intent,
I journeyed now: no more companionless,
Where solitude is like despair, I went.—
There is the wisdom of a stern content,
When poverty can blight the just and good,
When infamy dares mock the innocent,
And cherished friends turn with the multitude
To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood!

Now has descended a serener hour,
And with inconstant fortune friends return;

Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power,

Which says:-let scorn be not repaid with scorn.
And from thy side two gentle babes are born
To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn;
And these delights, and thou, have been to me
The parents of the song I consecrate to thee.
Is it that now my inexperienced fingers
But strike the prelude to a loftier strain?
Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers
Soon pause in silence ne'er to sound again,
Though it might shake the anarch Custom's reign,
And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway,
Holier than was Amphion's? it would fain
Reply in hope-but I am worn away, [prey.
And death and love are yet contending for their

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak:
Time may interpret to his silent years.
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek,
And in the light thine ample forehead wears,
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears,
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy
Is whispered to subdue my fondest fears:
And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally.
They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring child.

I wonder not-for one then left this earth
Whose life was like a setting planet mild,
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled
Of its departing glory; still her fame
Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild
Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim
The shelter from thy sire, of an immortal name.
One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit,
Which was the echo of three thousand years;
And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it,
As some lone man, who in a desart hears
The music of his home :-unwonted fears
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race,
And faith and custom and low-thoughted cares,
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space [place.
Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling
Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind!
If there must be no response to my cry-
If men must rise and stamp with fury blind
On his pure name who loves them,—thou and I,
Sweet friend! can look from our tranquillity
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,—
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by,
Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's
sight,
[light.
That burn from year to year with unextinguished

FROM THE REVOLT OF ISLAM.

It was a temple, such as mortal hand
Has never built, nor ecstacy, nor dream
Reared in the cities of enchanted land:

'Twas Jikest heaven, ere yet day's purple stream
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while the gleam
Of the unrisen moon among the clouds
Is gathering, when with many a golden beam
The thronging constellations rush in crowds,
Paving with fire the sky and the marmoreal floods.
Like what may be conceived of this vast dome,
When from the depths which thought can seldom
Genius beholds it rise, his native home, [pierce,
Girt by the desarts of the universe:

Yet, nor in paintings light, or mightier verse,
Or sculpture's marble language, can invest
That shape to mortal sense,-such glooms immerse
That incommunicable sight, and rest

Upon the labouring brain, and overburthened breast.

Winding among the lawny islands fair,
Whose blossomy forests starred the shadowy deep,
The wingless boat paused where an ivory stair
Its fretwork in the crystal sea did sleep,
Encircling that vast fane's aerial heap:
We disembarked, and through a portal wide
We past,-whose roof, of moonstone carved, did keep
A glimmering o'er the forms on every side, [eyed.
Sculptures like life and thought; immoveable, deep-

We came to a vast hall, whose glorious roof [sheen
Was diamond, which had drunk the lightning's
In darkness, and now poured it through the woof
Of spell-enwoven clouds hung there to screen
Its blinding splendour,-through such veil was seen
That work of subtlest power divine and rare;
Orb above orb, with starry shapes between,
And horned moons, and meteors strange and fair,
On night-black columns poised-one hollow he-
misphere!

Ten thousand columns in that quivering light
Distinct,-between whose shafts wound far away
The long and labyrinthine aisles more bright
With their own radiance than the heaven of day;
And on the jasper walls around there lay
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought,
Which did the spirit's history display;
A tale of passionate change, divinely taught,
Which in their winged dance unconscious Genii
wrought.

Beneath there sate on many a sapphire throne
The great, who had departed from mankind;
A mighty senate ;-some whose white hair shone
Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful, and blind.
Some, female forms, whose gestures beamed with
mind;

And ardent youths, and children bright and fair;
And some had lyres, whose strings were intertwined
With pale and clinging flames, which ever there
Walked, faint yet thrilling sounds, that pierced the
crystal air.

One seal was vacant in the midst, a throne
Reared on a pyramid, like sculptured flame
Distinct, with circling steps, which rested on

Their own deep fire-soon as the woman came
Into that hall, she shrieked the spirit's name
And fell; and vanished slowly from the sight.
Darkness arose from her dissolving frame,
Which gathering filled that dome of woven light,
Blotting its sphered stars with supernatural night.
Then first, two glittering lights were seen to glide
In circles on the amethystine floor,
Small serpent eyes wailing from side to side,
Like meteors on a river's grassy shore,
They round each other rolled, dilating more
And more, then rose commingling into one,
One clear and mighty planet, hanging o'er

A cloud of deepest shadow, which was thrown
Athwart the glowing steps, and the crystalline
throne.

The cloud which rested on that cone of flame
Was cloven; beneath the planet sate a form,
Fairer than tongue can speak, or thought may frame,
The radiance of whose limbs rose-like and warm
Flowed forth, and did with softest light inform
The shadowy dome, the sculptures and the state
Of those assembled shapes-with clinging charm,
Sinking upon their hearts and mine. He sate
Majestic, yet most mild-calm, yet compassionate.

FROM ROSALIND AND HELEN. "Lo, where red morning through the woods Is burning o'er the dew;" said Rosalind. [flood And with these words they rose, and towards the Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind With equal steps and fingers intertwined; Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies, And with their shadows the clear depths below, And where a little terrace from its bowers, Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er The liquid marble of the windless lake; And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, Under the leaves which their green garments make, They come: 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white, Like one which tyrants spare on our own land In some such solitude; its casements bright Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun, And even within 'twas scarce like Italy. [ned, And when she saw how all things there were planAs in an English home, dim memory Disturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as one Whose mind is where his body cannot be, Till Helen led her where her child yet slept, And said, "Observe, that brow was Lionel's, Those lips were his, and so he ever kept One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. You cannot see his eyes, they are two wells Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet." But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept A shower of burning tears, which fell upon

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